Wed, 27 Mar 96 20:41:46 PST
(I've still got duct tape on my shoes.)
I didn't go to my morning classes today because I got home
at 4:00 am.
From where, you might be asking? From the bay area, of course!
After classes on tuesday I drove from Santa Cruz to Davis, picked
up Zoggo, and then to the Trocadero in looooovvveely San Fran
to see Front Line Assembly.
The prerequisite black-costumed pale-faced folks packed the
place, as well as some truly excellent specimens in drag, and
some vampiric slinky females doing slow sensuous movements to
music that was unfittingly loud and manic. I suppose the various
drugs most of them were on helped set their mood.-I smelled many
exotic flavors in the smoke, and observed a tight little group
in the corner near the enterance hall snorting things from the
cups of their extended thumbs and wearing the typical goofy junkie
grin. The place gradually filled up with smoke as the opening bands
played.
In my grey sweater and blue jeans and lack of makeup and earring
I stood out. I saw a few folks dressed as I was, and came to an
interesting realization that my attire was as stereotypical as
the threads of the goths surrounding me- I was garbed in the carbon-copy
'college student' getup. Conservative in being non-committal.
I didn't mind my duds. But I realized that if I had the opportunity
to change into, say, a black dress, perhaps with golden-buckled
low heeled shoes and squat velvet short-brimmed had hat sporting
a large yellow feather cocked at an interested angle, I would
have. Hmmm, I suppose with the shoes I would have looked more
like a witch than a goth. Lose the buckles then. Go for some squarish
steel-toed boots and overstretched patchy dark stockings. Yeah,
you're all saying, whatever Grote.
The first band, 'Numb', was just loud and shitty. The second
band, 'Die Krupps', was better. The only creative instrument they
had, though, was a single chunk of metal that the signer hit with
two sticks. I tapped Zoggo on the shoulder and he angled his ear
down so I could yell directly into it. 'Now I see why he's not
the drummer!' I screamed. Zoggo smiled. I suppose the only reason
I'm not stone deaf right now is because he brought a wad of toilet
paper in his pocket, from which we tore impromptu earplugs. I
had a pair of my own, but forgot to bring them to the door, and
the car was a good four blocks away.
I concealed Zoggo while he stripped a poster from the walls
of the club. I wanted to grab one of my own but he insisted that
I do the peeling, and I figured that I wasn't tall enough to grab
the top of one inconspicuously from their place on the walls opposite
the bar and grill.
After a very long wait, FLA came out. A smoke machine concealed
their entrance. They started with a nice roiling soundscape of
violent noises that grew into Vigilante, from Millenium. (I think
that's what the song's called anyhow. I know it was off Millenium
because it was very guitar-heavy.) People started bopping around
and bouncing off each other. For a while I stood next to one of
the employees, who was on the fringe of the crowd shoving the
more energetic moshers back into the center to keep the chaos
from spreading to the less sporting ones at the sides and back.
I helped him out, covertly enjoying the great big SHOVE I could
give to all the drunk spastic dorks that blindly buffeted each
other around. They were too far gone to care: They were moshing,
after all. Every once in a while some adventurous mosher would
jump high into the air and crowd surf, but my employee compadre
would have none of this. Whenever someone made it up he would
squirt through the crowd like he was greased, and quickly haul
the offender down to earth. The first few surfers got away with
it the longest. These were all more plainly dressed females, and
appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely as they drifted from
hand to hand. All in all, an amusing sight. It would be easy to
imagine that no one got hurt, except for the bruised and unhappy
looking people that intermittantly staggered past me from the
thick of the dance floor, sometimes holding their stomachs or
clutching a bloodied nose.
After a long string of songs and soundscapes that I didn't
recognize, they suddenly quit and the stage went dark. It took
the crowd about twenty minutes to haul them back out for an encore
of two songs; however it was worth it. The last one they played
was the one I could best recognize- it was the long version of
Mindphaser, and I truly enjoyed myself. Zoggo and I decided to
move up, and I bopped my way into the mosh zone and got magically
transported around the room in great disjointed circles for much
of the song. Soon I decided that I'd had enough, and I found it
remarkably easy to cut through the people and over to Zoggo, who
was nodding along to the beat in his monolithic way. The closest
thing I came to an injury all evening was when someone accidentally
stepped on my duct-taped foot.
The song finished with a long crazy soundscape, and the lights
went on, revealing beer cups and cigarretes and various strips
of clothing smashed all over the floor. I took off my gloves and
felt my sweatshirt- it was extremely damp. I had on a shirt under
it, and it felt wetter than the shirt, so I can only conclude
that it was soaked with other people's sweat. As I wandered
out I passed a counter where FLA merchandise was being peddled.
I purchased no souvenir, however: they wanted 20 bucks for a lousy
t-shirt, and were trying to sell the new single for seven. If
I had a real job I might have bought the single.
On the way back I was tired as hell. It was an incredible
effort to keep my eyes open. In fact, I may very well have driven
off the road, and could be dreaming all this from a hospital bed
somewhere. Oh well, at least the colors are nice.
The gas light came on before I hit The Hill. I put what little
fuel I could afford into the tank but the gas light remained
lit, all the way home. That extra money that Zoggo bestowed
upon me before I left may have saved my butt.
So! I missed two classes today, and what have I gained? One
heck of an experience! That which does not kill us makes us stranger,
aye? I would have thought that the sight of so many goths and
junkies and punks and freaks would be frightening, but it was
more (garote strains at length for the proper word) ...pitiful.
I complimented various folk for their clothes, saw some intricate
costumes and interestingly contoured bodies, but couldn't think
of much to say to or ask of the people. No one seemed to give
much of a damn about anything.
'Twas a breath of fresh air tho, a new experience. Now back
to the grind of cabrillo. :/